In Two Minds

Hermione blinked, disoriented for a moment, as the lift doors slid open, releasing her back into the sterile, white hallways of the Ministry. She hadn’t even had time to fully process what had happened during her last shift, but there, standing just outside the lift, was Draco.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something more—perhaps a touch of impatience, maybe even amusement. “I thought I’d show you the way to the office for your first few days. It’s easy to get lost in these corridors if you’re not careful.”

Hermione took a moment to adjust to the change in surroundings. “So it’s tomorrow now?” she asked, still trying to grasp the passage of time.

“Uh, yeah,” Draco replied, looking at her with that familiar expression, one that was part bemusement, part quiet understanding. “It’s Thursday to be exact.”

Hermione’s mind buzzed, trying to connect the dots. It felt like no time had passed since she stepped into the lift and felt her consciousness flicker. Yet, somehow, the calendar had moved on without her.

She shook her head, her thoughts still not aligning. “But I don’t even feel like I left,” she said, voice tinged with a hint of frustration. She wasn’t sure if it was the disorientation of her new reality or the unsettling nature of it all that left her feeling disconnected.

Draco gave her a sideways glance, his expression unreadable, but his voice remained calm. “That’s how evenings feel for us down here,” he explained as he began walking down the hall. Hermione, still slightly behind, followed him dutifully. “You don’t get the usual breaks like you would in other jobs. No pause between day and night. It’s more like you’re just shifting from one cycle to another. Like you’re never really leaving or coming back.”

“Like nothing?” she asked, the word hanging heavy between them.

Draco’s lips twisted slightly, an almost imperceptible smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I promise you’ll get used to it,” he said, his voice steady, though there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite place. “I try to segment the days in my head. That helps. I’ll step out of the lift, remind myself it’s a new day, and pretend I’m refreshed, ready for whatever comes next.”

“So, you just... get used to it?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Draco glanced at her, his eyes sharp but warm, as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. “In a way,” he replied, his voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret. “You learn to stop thinking about the gaps in your memory and start focusing on the work. The rest... well, it fades into the background.”

Hermione thought about that for a moment, the weight of his words settling in her chest. How could she possibly just stop thinking about what she couldn’t remember? But Draco seemed so sure, so certain of his routine. If anyone could understand this strange, disjointed world she now found herself in, it might be him.

They continued walking in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty halls of the Ministry. Each corridor seemed identical to the last, the sterile white walls closing in, reinforcing the idea that there was no real escape, no way to leave the strange reality she had entered. 

_____________

“So the files come in,” Cormac began, his voice slightly amused, “and we - the juniors - assign them a number from one to ten. After that, they’re passed over to the intermediates, and they assign a colour to it—red, amber, or green. After that, the seniors either approve or deny it.”

Hermione, who had pulled up a chair next to Cormac’s desk, leaned forward, her fingers brushing over the notepad she’d grabbed. “Should I be taking notes on this?” she asked, unsure of how much she was supposed to remember right away.

Draco, who had been standing quietly nearby, glanced over and spoke up before Cormac could answer. “No,” he said curtly, “You’ll get the hang of it as you go along. No need for notes right now.”

Hermione nodded, though her curiosity was piqued. The whole process sounded simple on paper, but there was something about the way Cormac and Draco discussed it that made it feel more complex than it appeared. She wasn’t sure if it was the lack of emotion in their voices or the routine that made it sound so... detached.

Cormac, seemingly eager to offer a bit more insight into the work culture, gestured toward his desk with a half-grin. “I’ve sorted 46 files this quarter, which means I’ve earned four incentives.” He paused for effect, as if he were announcing a great achievement. “Rewards for those include sweets, flavoured coffee, and other little treats. But if you hit 50 files in a quarter—that’s quota—you get a desk decoration of your choosing.”

Hermione glanced at the desk, where a polished white stone hovered lightly in the air, its enchanted form floating gracefully just above the surface of the wood. “Last quarter, I got this,” Cormac added with pride, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the stone, which shimmered slightly in the light.

“Wow,” Hermione said, genuinely impressed. It seemed like such a small thing, but the enchanted paperweight was actually rather beautiful, its simplicity drawing her in.

“Wow is correct,” Cormac said, almost smugly. “And if we all hit quota in a quarter, we get a randomised party. Previously, we’ve had doughnuts, pizza, cookies... it’s a bit of a treat, really. Although, I’ve only been here for one quarter, so I’m just taking everyone else’s word on that. Sounds good, though, right? But the real highlight is the ‘Employee of the Quarter’ award. It’s a big deal. If one of us hits a certain number of files or shows extra initiative, they get the title and... well, a special prize.”

“What kind of prize?” Hermione asked, leaning in a little, curious about this secret reward.

Cormac’s face fell slightly. “I wouldn’t know,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve never won.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion. She couldn’t help but wonder why Cormac was so invested in the whole process if he hadn’t ever come close to winning. Was it just a way of passing the time, or did people genuinely care about these seemingly small rewards?

Nell, the woman seated at the desk next to Cormac’s, chimed in, leaning over with a grin. “Ishanti has won three quarters in a row,” she said, her voice casual but with a hint of admiration. “She’s the one to watch around here.”

“Okay, thanks, guys,” Draco said, trying to steer the conversation away from the idle gossip that had filled the room since Hermione had walked in. The chatter died down a little, and everyone returned to their respective tasks. “Hermione, you’re going to sit at this desk at the front for today and tomorrow. Once the promotions and reshuffling are sorted next week, you’ll move to the back with the other juniors.”

Before she could settle into her new desk, Ishanti, who had been watching the scene unfold, stood up from her own desk. “Draco,” she said, her tone casual but with a hint of reprimand, “I noticed you took down Dorcas’ photo from the staff board.”

Draco glanced up, unfazed. “Yeah, I was making room for Hermione’s. She’ll be taking it today at her party.”

“Oh,” Ishanti said, her eyebrows arching in mild surprise. Without another word, she quietly sat back down at her desk, clearly accepting Draco’s explanation, but Hermione couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension that lingered in the air.

Turning his attention back to Hermione, Draco gestured to the papers in front of her. “Okay, so these are your files. Each one contains data encoded into randomised letters.” He swept his hand over the chaotic jumble of letters on the page. “They’re encrypted so we can’t read them directly, but we can assign them a number based on the feel of each one.”

Hermione stared at the papers, the jumble of letters making absolutely no sense to her. Before she could voice her confusion, Ishanti interrupted again, standing from her desk.

“I do think the photo is supposed to stay up until the promotions have been given,” she said, voice casual but with an edge of authority.

Draco turned to her, his tone firm. “Okay, thank you, Ishanti,” he said, shutting down her interference with a practiced air of professionalism. Ishanti didn’t argue, simply sitting back down, her posture stiffening slightly.

Turning his attention back to Hermione, Draco sighed as if bracing for the next stage of the explanation. “Alright, Hermione, let’s break this down. These are your files.” He tapped the pile in front of her, as if encouraging her to dig into them. “Each page contains a series of random letters, but there’s more to it than just that. The data is encoded in a way that triggers emotions or impressions. Your job is to assign a number to each page based on how it makes you feel.”

Hermione blinked. She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “A number? For a bunch of gibberish?”

Draco gave her a deadpan stare. “Yes, that’s right. It’s like reading between the lines. When you look at the page, you’ll get a feeling. You don’t need to understand the letters themselves; just trust your instincts.”

She felt a small chuckle bubbling up inside her, but she quickly suppressed it. “Okay... A feeling?” Hermione asked, almost laughing, unsure of whether to take him seriously.

Draco nodded, unfazed. “Yeah, for example, a page with a lot of As might feel intimidating or harsh, so you’d label it a 1. A page with a lot of Es might feel happy or serene, so you’d label it an 8.”

Hermione stared at the paper, trying to make sense of it. She felt ridiculous, but there was something oddly calming in Draco’s tone, as if he truly believed in the method. She couldn’t help but wonder how this strange system had lasted so long without anyone questioning its sanity.

“And when you get to the end of a file,” Draco continued, “it may have a majority of pages that are all labeled 8, so you categorise the entire file as an 8.”

Hermione let out a small sigh. “So my job is to look through pages of gibberish, trying to decide which pages are scary or happy based on... feelings?”

Draco’s lips quirked slightly. “Exactly.”

Hermione exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “This is... madness. How do I know which letters are scary? Are they bloody? Do they chant ominous things at me?”

Draco chuckled under his breath. “It doesn’t make sense until you see it. And it takes a while to see it.” His voice was calm, assured, as if he had explained this countless times before.

Before Hermione could respond, Ishanti stood from her desk once more, holding up a small, leather-bound book. “Draco,” she called, her voice carrying just enough pointed professionalism to remind everyone that she was, in fact, the most competent person in the room. “I’ve just found the page from the handbook on staff photos. I’ll leave it open on your desk if you want to have a read.”

Draco let out the smallest sigh before nodding. “Thank you, Ishanti.”

Hermione leaned slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “Am I trapped here?”

Draco turned to her, brow furrowing. “In what way?”

She hesitated, glancing around at the others before lowering her voice even further. “If I don’t like it here, can I leave?”

Draco studied her for a moment, then nodded. “If you’re really unhappy, you can submit a resignation request form. Your outie can then review it.”

Hermione frowned. That sounded… reasonable. Too reasonable. “And if I do that?”

From a few desks away, Cassius gave a dry, humourless laugh. “Good luck getting that approved.”

“They do tend to be rejected,” Draco admitted.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Why?”

Draco hesitated. “Well, for one, your outie chose to take this job. They knew what they were signing up for.”

“That’s debatable,” Hermione muttered.

Draco ignored that. “And then there’s, you know…”

“Know what?” she pressed.

He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Since this version of you only exists within the Ministry, if you quit, it would effectively… end your life. I mean, in as much as you’ve come to know it.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. The weight of Draco’s words settled over her like a thick fog, making her acutely aware of the stacks of files in front of her. Each page of seemingly meaningless letters felt heavier now, as if they carried something far more significant than she had initially realised.

Before she could fully process it, the door swung open, breaking the tension.

“Good morning, Team C!”

A cheerful voice filled the room, and Hermione turned to see a man standing in the doorway, a large cake balanced in his hands. The others straightened in their seats, some of them quickly shifting their focus to their work in an attempt to appear productive.

“Good morning, Mr. Vance,” Draco greeted, his voice taking on the careful tone of someone who knew how to navigate workplace hierarchy. He reached for a nearby file, flipping it open in a way that made it look like he had been deeply engrossed in it the entire time.

“Hermione, welcome!” Mr. Vance said, his gaze landing on her with open enthusiasm. “I must say, I’m amazed at how quickly you’ve settled into your new team.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Oh, um… thank you.”

“Now!” Vance continued, stepping further into the room and setting the cake down on a nearby table with an exaggerated flourish. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

There was a polite scattering of applause, though Hermione noticed that some of her colleagues—Draco included—were still carefully maintaining an air of professionalism. It was clear that these workplace ‘celebrations’ were more of an obligation than a genuine break.

Vance clapped his hands together. “It’s not every day we welcome a new member to the Department of Mysteries, and I firmly believe that a happy team is a productive team. So—cake!”

Hermione glanced down at the cake, her eyes tracing the swirling blue icing that spelled out, Welcome, Hermione G. 

A polite murmur of approval rippled through the room, though not everyone seemed particularly thrilled about the interruption. Across the desk, Ishanti cast a quick glance at the clock, her expression carefully neutral, but Hermione could almost see the mental calculation taking place—exactly how much of their workday this celebration would take up.

Draco leaned slightly toward Hermione, speaking under his breath. “Smile and nod. He likes enthusiasm.”

Hermione quickly forced a polite smile, willing herself to appear more at ease than she felt. Vance, completely oblivious to any discomfort in the room, beamed as he clapped his hands together.

"Alright, let's all move into a circle," he instructed. His tone was light, but there was an undeniable authority to it. "Ishanti, that includes you too, worker bee."

Ishanti let out a barely audible sigh but pushed back her chair and stood, joining the others. Hermione followed suit, watching as Vance reached into his jacket and withdrew his wand. With an effortless flick, he conjured a small, ball into his palm. The sight of it—a simple bit of magic—struck Hermione more than it should have. Of course, Vance wasn’t severed. He still had access to his magic, his autonomy.

"The game is simple," Vance announced. "I’ll throw the ball to one of you, and when you catch it, introduce yourself, tell us how long you’ve been here, and one fun fact about yourself. Then, you toss it to the next person."

With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the ball to Cormac. Now that he was standing, Hermione could properly take him in—tall, broad-shouldered, with dirty blond hair and an easy confidence that suggested he was used to being noticed. He caught the ball with practiced ease.

"Um, I’m Cormac M., as you all know," he said, rolling the ball between his hands. "I’ve been at the Ministry for about five months, I’m a junior unspeakable and something about me is… I’m allergic to peanuts."

Nell adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses as she caught the ball, her small frame barely seeming to take up space in the circle. She had a quiet presence, but there was something sharp in the way she observed the room, as if she was always cataloging information.

"I'm Nell D.," she said with a polite smile. "I’ve been at the Ministry for about eighteen months, though I did take a year out when my outie was on maternity leave." She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before continuing. "I’m also a junior Unspeakable, and a fun fact about me is that I’m absolutely terrified of snakes… not that I’ve ever actually seen one, of course."

There was a soft chuckle from a few people, but Hermione barely registered it. She was too busy noticing the way Nell’s eyes were already scanning for her next target.

"Please don’t," Hermione said quickly, holding up a hand in protest.

But it was too late. With a small, mischievous smirk, Nell lobbed the ball to Hermione. It was an easy, casual throw, but when it landed in Hermione’s hands, it felt heavier than it should have—like it was somehow carrying more weight than just the rules of the game. The room fell quiet, waiting for her to speak. She could feel every pair of eyes subtly assessing her, even if some were better at pretending otherwise.

"Um…" Hermione started, her voice a little hesitant, "I’m Hermione G. I’ve been at the Ministry for, like… ten hours total." She gave a small, self-conscious laugh, but it came out more awkward than intended. Her fingers shifted against the textured surface of the ball, buying herself a few extra seconds. "And I… I don’t know anything about myself."

Without thinking, she moved to chuck the ball over to Draco—an instinctive attempt to escape the moment—but before she could, Mr. Vance raised a hand, palm outward, halting her.

"Sure you do," he said encouragingly, flashing that ever-present genial smile.

Hermione’s brows knit together slightly. "Um, I really don’t," she insisted, glancing around as if anyone else might jump in and back her up. When no one did, she offered weakly, "I guess I went home last night? But I don’t know what home is, or if I have a family or…" She trailed off, feeling an unexpected tightness in her throat.

"I like to think my outie lives in a really cool apartment," Cormac cut in, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "You know, with those massive windows that overlook the city. Maybe one of those fancy coffee makers too."

Hermione blinked. "I’m sorry, your what?" she asked, thrown by the unfamiliar term.

"Outie," Draco supplied, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "They’re us, but on the outside. That was yours yesterday, in the memory you saw."

Hermione’s fingers tensed slightly around the ball, recalling the glimpse of her outie—the woman with the intelligent, purposeful eyes. She tried to reconcile that version of herself with the disoriented one standing here, blank and disconnected from any real sense of identity.

"Yeah, about that," she said slowly, glancing at Draco, "Can I… send one back to her? A memory, I mean. Just… I have a few things I want her to know."

Cassius gave a low chuckle from where he was leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. The sound was dry, almost mocking.

"Communication between selves is extremely locked down," Mr. Vance answered smoothly, as if he were reciting a well-rehearsed policy line. His affable smile widened just slightly, as though he were talking to a child asking for dessert before dinner. "For both your outie’s wellbeing and your own."

Hermione’s fingers curled slightly around the ball. "But… what if I just wrote her a note?" she pressed, her voice firmer this time.

Nell shook her head faintly, as though the suggestion were naïve. "The lifts have code detection spells on them," she explained in her usual pragmatic tone. "So we can’t pass messages through. I tried once."

Hermione glanced over at her, surprised. Nell’s face was impassive, but her voice wavered ever so slightly on the last word.

"I wanted to know what we called our baby," Nell added quietly, eyes dropping to the floor for just a second before returning to the group, her expression carefully neutral.

Something inside Hermione twisted. She stared at Nell, suddenly struck by the cruel reality of it—the impossibility of knowing. To have a child somewhere out there, one you would never meet, whose name you wouldn’t even know. And yet, Nell still turned up to work every day, efficient and sharp, sorting through gibberish files and exchanging mild jokes with Cormac. Hermione’s throat tightened.

Before she could say anything, Mr. Vance clapped his hands once, the sharp sound cracking the spell of solemnity in the room.

"Okay, let’s try to stay on topic, people," he said brightly, as if they’d simply veered into mundane office gossip. His tone was playful, but there was a slight edge of finality beneath it. "I don’t think you quite understand the game, Hermione," he added, turning back to her with an indulgent smile. "May I try?"

Hermione nodded stiffly, the weight in her hands feeling heavier by the second.

Vance spread his arms in an almost theatrical gesture, as if introducing her to the entire group for the first time. His voice was warm, charming, and confident—the kind of voice that was used to commanding attention.

"This," he declared, "is Hermione G. She’s twenty-four years old. She’s a Virgo. She loves otters," he added with a wink, "and, seeing her here with all of you, I would say she most definitely has a family."

There was a polite chuckle from somewhere in the circle, and Vance’s eyes gleamed as though he were immensely pleased with his own performance. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, clearly proud of how effortlessly he’d steered the conversation back to a safe, sanitised version of itself. The room relaxed slightly, the moment of tension dissipating like steam off the surface of a hot drink. The game was back on track.

Hermione forced a faint smile, but her hands remained locked tightly around the ball, her knuckles pale against the surface. She hesitated, feeling the weight of the group’s gaze, before turning toward Draco. Slowly, she toss the ball towards him.

Draco caught it easily. His posture was casual—leaning ever so slightly into one hip—but there was a practiced quality to it, a smoothness that made Hermione suspect he had played this game more times than he cared to admit. His expression was dry, but the edge of his mouth twitched faintly with something that could almost be mistaken for amusement.

"Oh god," he said with mock exasperation, "that’s a big one to follow." He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "So I’ll just say… I’m Draco M. I’ve been at the Ministry for about five years, and I really love this game." His voice was smooth, but Hermione caught the slight deadpan quality in the last part—a subtle dig at the whole exercise, delivered with just enough charm to pass as playful.

Without missing a beat, Draco lobbed the ball toward Cassius. It sailed through the air in a lazy arc, but before it reached its intended target, Mr. Vance’s hand shot out with surprising speed and intercepted it mid-flight.

"Ah-ha!" Vance declared, holding the ball aloft like a triumphant Snitch-catcher. "Nice try, Draco, but you said that last time." His grin widened, eyes glittering with the delighted satisfaction of a schoolteacher catching a cheeky student in a fib.

Caught off guard, Draco blinked. "Ah, you got me," he said smoothly, quickly slipping back into his usual composed tone. He scratched the back of his neck in feigned embarrassment, but there was something guarded in his eyes—something just barely perceptible beneath the surface.

Vance tossed the ball back to him. Draco caught it, but his fingers tightened slightly around it this time. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting vaguely toward the far wall, where a line of framed staff photographs hung.

"Um…" he began, his voice quieter now, less practiced. "Well… I…" He glanced at the ball in his hands as though he were searching for the words somewhere in its scuffed surface. "I broke protocol this morning."

The room stilled slightly. The casual, easy energy from before shifted, the edges of the circle seeming to close in ever so slightly.

Draco cleared his throat faintly and continued, eyes still on the ball. "I was looking at the staff photos in the office," he said, his voice measured but careful. "And it made me feel… sad." He glanced briefly toward Mr. Vance, as if testing the waters, then looked back down at the ball. "Seeing Dorcas’ photo on the wall and not knowing where she is. Or how she is."

A slight ripple passed through the group—barely noticeable, just a few shifted glances.

"I mean," Draco continued, "we weren’t friends or anything. But I knew her for years." He exhaled sharply through his nose, his lips tugging into a small, sardonic smile. "So… I took her photo down and hid it in my desk drawer."

There was a pause. For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Ishanti—ever alert—stood slightly straighter.

"I saw that," she cut in, her voice carrying across the circle. "I did object, Mr. Vance."

Hermione’s eyes flicked between them, catching the way Ishanti’s chin lifted slightly, her sharp gaze angled toward Vance as though eager to demonstrate her diligence.

But Vance didn’t address her. Instead, he kept his eyes on Draco, his expression remaining perfectly pleasant.

Draco, however, ignored Ishanti entirely. His gaze was far away now, his voice quieter and more reflective. "I suppose I just panicked," he admitted, the words slipping out like something unintentional. His fingers turned the ball slowly between his hands. "I thought… maybe I wasn’t a good manager. Seeing her photo looking down at me, I just…" He trailed off, the sentence unfinished.

For a moment, it hung in the air.

"Thank you, Draco," Mr. Vance interjected smoothly, cutting him off just before the room could fall into silence. His voice was warm and encouraging, but there was a calculated lightness to it, as though he were gently pulling the group back from the edge of something uncomfortable. "For sharing that."

He offered a gracious smile, but his eyes were sharp with subtle curiosity. "I actually find your reaction rather sweet," he added with a light chuckle. "Though I am curious why you’ve had this reaction for Dorcas and not for previous employees who have left us."

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Draco, watching the way his lips parted slightly—caught off guard by the question.

Draco let out a quiet breath, rolling the ball slowly between his palms. "With everyone else, we knew beforehand that they were leaving," he answered simply. "We had a party. We stood at the lift and watched them go." His voice grew quieter, more distant. "With Dorcas, she was just… gone. No warning." His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed. "I mean, we don’t know if she’s at a new job or… dead… or…"

"That’s enough. Thank you, Draco," Mr. Vance said quickly, cutting him off with an almost imperceptible shift in his smile. His tone was still perfectly pleasant, but firmer now. The room held still, caught in the sudden precision of Vance’s control.

He turned slightly, addressing the group as a whole with a bright, reassuring tone. "I think this is a good opportunity to remind ourselves that things like death don’t happen down here," he said lightly, almost playfully. "Your lives at the Ministry are protected from such things."

For a brief moment, Hermione felt an involuntary chill crawl along her skin. She glanced around, noting how everyone in the circle wore faint, polite smiles—their faces impassive, almost serene.

Vance clapped his hands together, dispelling the tension with the sound. "I think it’s best if we leave the game for today," he announced brightly, as if the previous conversation had been nothing more than an amusing detour. "Let’s get everyone some cake, shall we?"

There was a collective murmur of agreement, and slowly, the circle began to unravel. The tight formation dissolved into smaller clusters, colleagues drifting back to their desks or gathering around the cake. The earlier conversation faded into the background, replaced by the soft hum of meaningless chatter. Laughter bubbled up here and there—light, hollow, but easy, as though the brief disquiet from Draco’s admission had already been neatly smoothed over.

Plates clattered faintly as people helped themselves to thick slices of cake. Cormac stood near the corner, talking animatedly to Cassius, a generous portion already halfway gone on his plate. Nell and Ishanti leaned against their desks, making low, conspiratorial comments Hermione couldn’t quite catch. Mr. Vance circulated, all smiles and charm, laughing just a little too enthusiastically at a joke Hermione hadn’t heard.

But her eyes drifted past them all, landing on Draco.

He stood slightly apart from the others, near the wall where the staff photos hung. His back was half-turned to the group, one hand tucked loosely in his pocket, the other idly turning his fork against the corner of a plate, though he hadn’t taken so much as a bite. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly at something Cormac said, but Hermione could tell it was a reflex—a practiced expression of polite amusement rather than anything genuine.

Without thinking, she drifted toward him, slipping past the others. The hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery seemed to blur at the edges as she approached.

He must have sensed her, because when she drew close, he glanced over his shoulder, catching her eye. His expression softened faintly, and he turned slightly to face her, though he made no effort to mask the withdrawn look in his eyes.

"Hey," he greeted softly, his voice almost lost beneath the murmur of the room. He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, and his lips curled into a faint, humourless smile. "Sorry for ruining your game."

Hermione’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, then softened. She let out a small chuckle, leaning slightly into the hand she had casually resting against her hip.

"Hey," she countered lightly, tilting her head. "I thought I already had." She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow, eyes glimmering faintly with teasing. "But then… yeah, actually you made it much worse."

Draco blinked once, then let out a low, genuine laugh—a brief, quiet sound that seemed to catch him off guard. His shoulders, which had been subtly hunched, relaxed slightly.

"Well," he drawled with mock seriousness, glancing down at his plate and prodding at the untouched cake with his fork, "I do aim for excellence."

Hermione grinned faintly, her eyes lingering on him. For the first time since she had arrived, he seemed… real. Not perfectly composed, not coolly professional—just a person who had felt something enough to let it slip through the seams. The difference was subtle, but she felt it all the same.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the wall where the staff photos hung. The space where Dorcas’ picture had once been was conspicuously blank—a faint outline of dust clinging to the frame where it had once rested. Her eyes trailed back to Draco.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice barely above a murmur. "You didn’t ruin anything."

His eyes caught hers. For a brief second, he looked almost startled—like he wasn’t sure how to respond. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth tugged into the faintest, genuine smile.

But before either of them could say anything else, a voice cut through the low hum of the room.

"Hey, are you two going to join us or just have a private pity party over there?" Cormac called out, raising a plastic fork in mock accusation. "Because I’m about two bites away from claiming Hermione’s piece of cake."

Draco smirked faintly, but the flicker of warmth in his eyes cooled slightly as he straightened and turned back toward the group.

Hermione rolled her eyes playfully, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah, yeah, we’re coming," she called back, her voice light and teasing.

But she lingered just a second longer, her eyes still on Draco. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. For a moment, it was as though the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates faded into a distant blur. She opened her mouth slightly, as if she might say something more—but before she could, Mr. Vance’s voice cut through the low din.

"Alright, everyone," Vance called out, clapping his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. "This is an important moment!"

Hermione blinked, startled slightly by the sudden shift in tone. She turned, watching as Vance reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, old-fashioned camera. It was boxy and worn, with delicate brass edges and a faint shimmer of magic pulsing through its lens.

"Because," Vance continued, beaming as he held the camera aloft, "we also have a tradition to complete!" His eyes twinkled with forced cheer. "Every new team member gets their photo taken for the board. It’s a way to commemorate your official place with us."

Hermione stilled slightly. Her eyes flicked toward the wall where the staff photos hung—the empty space where Dorcas’ portrait had once been. A dull ache pulsed faintly behind her ribs.

Without meaning to, she glanced instinctively at Draco. He was still standing just behind her, his expression carefully blank. But when her eyes met his, he gave her the barest of nods—so small it was almost imperceptible. An unspoken just go along with it.

Swallowing the faint tightness in her throat, Hermione turned back to Vance. She pasted on a polite, compliant smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Perfect!" Vance crooned, clearly satisfied. He lifted the camera to eye level, his fingers hovering over the shutter. "Alright, let’s see a nice, big smile, shall we?"

Hermione tried. She forced the corners of her lips upward, holding them in place. But it felt mechanical. Hollow. Her jaw ached slightly from the tension, but she didn’t drop the smile.

The flash went off.

It was too bright, sudden and sharp. The light hit her square in the eyes, momentarily blinding her. She blinked hard, spots flickering in her vision.

But before she had fully recovered, she heard Draco’s voice cut through the room, steady and composed.

"Mr. Vance?" he called out.

Vance turned, his fingers still adjusting the camera. "Yes, Draco?"

Draco’s expression was calm, almost casual. But there was a faint, calculated glimmer in his eyes.

"Could we do a photo of the whole team?" he asked smoothly.

There was a brief pause. Hermione’s eyes flicked to Vance and, just for a second, she thought she saw the man’s grin falter—his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the suggestion of breaking from protocol, or maybe just the interruption of his carefully rehearsed routine.

But then, just as quickly, Vance’s smile was back, as polished and eager as ever.

"Of course," he said brightly, his voice warm but ever so slightly clipped. "Everyone stand with Hermione."

There was a faint shuffle of surprise from the others. She caught the momentary glances passed between Nell and Cormac, a subtle quirk of Ishanti’s brow. This was clearly not part of the usual tradition.

Plates were set down. Forks clattered faintly against porcelain. Slowly, the team made their way over to where Hermione stood.

She shifted slightly, trying to make room, but before she could move, she felt Draco step in behind her.

The space between them was almost nonexistent. She could feel the warmth of him at her back, the faint graze of his breath against the shell of her ear. His arm brushed against hers as everyone adjusted their positions, his fingers accidentally—or maybe not—skimming her elbow as he stepped closer to make room. The touch was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it left a faint, tingling awareness in her skin.

The rest of the team gradually closed in around her. Ishanti and Cassius took their places at her sides, their expressions neutral but courteous, the kind of practiced politeness that came with routine. Cormac and Nell lingered near the edges, their smiles slightly looser, almost amused by the unexpected group photo. The remaining team members—faces Hermione had yet to put names to—filtered in, filling the empty spaces. One by one, they shuffled into place, some exchanging brief glances or stifled chuckles, others quietly complying. In the end all ten of them pressed together in a tight, uneven cluster, their shoulders brushing as they arranged themselves for the shot.

"Alright!" Vance’s voice rang out, sharp and performative. He held the camera up once more, his grin firmly in place. "Everyone say…" He paused for dramatic effect, raising his free hand with a theatrical flourish. "For the Ministry!"

Hermione’s throat tightened slightly, but she parted her lips and echoed the words with the rest of them.

"For the Ministry," they chorused.

The camera clicked. The flash was blinding once more, briefly bleaching out the faces around her.

And then it was over.

There was a brief scatter of movement—the group beginning to drift apart once again. The moment dissolved as quickly as it had come, voices resuming their idle chatter, footsteps moving back toward desks and plates.

But for the briefest of moments, Hermione didn’t move. She remained where she was, still faintly aware of Draco behind her. His presence lingered—close, warm.

And as she finally turned to glance over her shoulder, she caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—a quiet glance, nothing more. But there was something almost grateful in it. Fleeting, but real.

Then, just as quickly, he turned away, stepping back into the group, the polished professionalism slipping effortlessly back into place.

Hermione remained still for a moment longer, lingering in the fading warmth where Draco’s arm had grazed hers. The heat of it lingered faintly on her skin, and for a fleeting second, she let herself focus on that small, human sensation—one of the only tangible things that felt real in this place. But the moment passed, and reality came crashing down. Her stomach turned slightly as she stared at the faces around her—friendly, polite, but eerily practiced. It was too easy to imagine herself here a year from now, smiling like them, laughing at the same recycled jokes, celebrating every new starter with cake, while quietly pretending not to notice the absence of the ones who had left. The ones who were never coming back.

I can’t do this.

Her feet shifted before her mind made the decision. Slowly, almost cautiously, she started inching backward, moving toward the door in steady, measured steps, doing her best not to draw attention. Her eyes flicked casually over the others, her smile politely plastered in place. She’d almost made it when—

“Hermione? Where are you going?” Nell’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation.

Hermione froze. Her hand hovered just shy of the doorframe, her fingertips grazing the cool surface. She turned back slowly, blinking as though she had simply lost track of her surroundings.

“Oh,” she said, forcing a light, sheepish laugh, “You’ve all been so kind, but, um... I don’t think I want to work here. So, I’m just going to go. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was painfully earnest, like she was excusing herself from an awkward dinner party, not quitting a job that may or may not end her existence entirely.

A beat of confused silence stretched between them.

“Hermione?” Draco’s voice cut in sharply, his tone laced with caution. She could hear the subtle edge beneath it—the quiet warning.

“I just…” she turned to him, her voice trembling slightly despite herself, “I’m gonna quit.” Her words were rushed now, bubbling out in a frantic string of explanations. “I don’t want to do the file-sorting thing, or the never-seeing-the-outside thing, or the disappearing-people thing, so I’m just going to quit.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the nearest desk and grabbed the first scrap of parchment and quill she could find. Her fingers were clumsy as she scrawled the words: I want to quit, please.

Her hand shook slightly as she set the quill down.

“I don’t want any of this,” she added, louder this time, her voice catching slightly.

There was a shuffle of movement behind her, and she heard Cormac’s voice, confused and cautious.

“But… the code detectors,” he said, brows furrowed.

She whipped around, her eyes narrowed. “But how many times have you tried?” she shot back, her voice rising with a sudden surge of desperation. She turned to Nell, gesturing sharply toward her. “Just the once? Maybe it was a fluke.”

The room fell still. A few people glanced at one another, uncertain. Nell’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t answer.

Hermione didn’t wait for a response. She moved quickly now, her heels clipping the stone floor, gathering speed as she closed the distance to the door. Her breath was sharp and uneven as she cast one last glance over her shoulder.

Draco’s eyes were locked on her, sharp and unreadable.

I’m sorry, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. Instead, she simply met his gaze with a fleeting, helpless look, then yanked the door open.

She ran.

The moment she was through the door, she sprinted into the corridor, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Her legs burned with the force of her strides, but she didn’t slow. She took corners at random, her mind hazy with adrenaline, only half-aware that she was almost certainly heading in the wrong direction.

Come on, think. The lifts—where were they?

Her breath was ragged as she careened around another corner, her surroundings blurring into a mess of identical white corridors. She wasn’t sure if she was getting closer or farther away. It didn’t matter. She just had to keep going.

Then she heard him.

“Hermione!” Draco’s voice rang out behind her, firm and commanding.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t look back. She pushed herself harder, her lungs screaming as she forced her legs to keep moving.

“Hermione, stop!” he shouted again, closer this time.

Her hands brushed against the cold, sterile walls as she veered into another corridor, legs pumping furiously beneath her. She wasn’t fast enough. The sound of his footsteps was gaining, closing the distance between them.

“Please, just—stop!” His voice cracked slightly, and it was enough to break her stride.

The lift was just ahead. A flash of hope flickered in Hermione’s chest as she spotted it at the end of the corridor. Her legs ached from running, her breath came in shallow gasps, but she didn’t slow down. She clutched the note in her hand so tightly that the parchment crumpled against her palm, damp with sweat.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she reached the lift and threw herself inside. With trembling fingers, she jabbed the button to close the doors. They began to slide shut, and for a fleeting moment, she felt a sliver of relief. She exhaled sharply, leaning against the cool metal wall.

But before the doors could seal, a shrill, piercing alarm rang out, splitting the air. A warning spell. The sound jolted her, and she whipped her head toward the corridor. Her panic surged.

She slammed her hand repeatedly against the "close" button, but it was too late. Through the narrowing gap, she saw Draco sprint into view, his eyes wide with urgency. From another corridor, a second figure emerged—a man she didn’t recognise.

He was tall and solidly built, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. His short, dark hair was neatly combed, and his sharp, hawkish eyes scanned her with the cool efficiency of someone used to catching runners. The black suit he wore was fitted perfectly, crisp and severe, with a wand holster on his belt. Early to mid-forties, by her guess, but the deep lines bracketing his mouth made him look older, harder.

“Step out of the lift,” the man ordered, his voice low and gravelly, like grinding stone.

“No.” Hermione’s voice was firm, but her hand shook slightly where it gripped the lift’s railing. She fought to keep her breathing even.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, and without another word, he lunged forward. His hand clamped around her wrist with brutal efficiency, jerking her from the lift with enough force to make her stumble.

“What do we have here then?” he muttered, snatching the crumpled note from her clenched fingers. His dark eyes flicked over the scrawled words. His lips twisted into a faint sneer, and his grip tightened slightly on her arm. “I think you’d better come with me.”

Before Hermione could wrench herself free, she heard a voice behind them.

“Ah, Mr. Dawlish,” Draco’s voice rang out, light and overly casual, but with an unmistakable edge. “I see you’ve found my new trainee.”

Hermione’s head whipped around, her eyes wide. Draco slowed his stride as he approached, fixing his features into a mask of mild amusement. His pale face was carefully blank, but his eyes—faintly narrowed—were sharp and calculating.

“I was actually just explaining to Hermione about the code detectors,” Draco continued smoothly, a charming, self-deprecating lilt creeping into his voice. “You know, warning her about what would happen if she took a note into the lift. I was, of course, speaking hypothetically, but...” he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly, “well, you can see how she might have misunderstood me. Silly mistake, really.”

He glanced at Hermione with a rueful shrug, as though she were nothing more than a bumbling new recruit who’d made an honest error. Her mouth was dry.

Dawlish’s cold eyes flicked from Hermione back to Draco, assessing him with slow, deliberate scrutiny. He was measuring him.

After a beat of silence, Draco added, with a sheepish grin, “My fault, really. Should’ve been clearer, shouldn’t I?”

Dawlish’s eyes raked over him, slow and deliberate. Then, he let out a rough chuckle, the sound low and humourless. “Oh, me being stupid again, eh?” Draco added breezily, seizing the moment, his voice ever so slightly too loud, too casual.

He turned to Hermione, speaking more firmly this time. “Hermione, this is Mr. Dawlish. Our head of security.” He flashed her a placid smile, but there was an unmistakable tension in his eyes, a silent warning. Play along.

“He keeps us all safe,” Draco added smoothly, as though introducing her to a kindly office janitor.

Dawlish’s lips curled into a thin, mirthless smile. “Manager of your team now, I hear, Draco,” he said, his voice low and assessing.

Draco’s mouth twitched into a rehearsed smile, keeping his voice steady. “Yes, sir.”

Dawlish cocked his head slightly. “Not a great way to start, is it?”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“No, sir,” Draco replied quickly, his tone contrite, but his eyes remained cool and steady. Then, with a casual, almost dismissive nod, he turned to Hermione.
“You can find your own way back to the office, I presume, Hermione?”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she nodded quickly, her movements stiff and mechanical.

“Good,” Draco said briskly. “I’m just going to have a quick chat with Mr. Dawlish.” He smiled faintly, far too composed, as though they were discussing tomorrow’s schedule. “I won’t be long.”

Dawlish’s grip on her wrist loosened slightly, and she instinctively pulled back, her fingers still tingling with the lingering pressure of his hold. Without another word, she turned and walked stiffly down the corridor, her pulse thundering in her ears. She didn’t look back.

She could feel the weight of Dawlish’s gaze on her back as he turned slightly toward Draco. And then, without another glance in her direction, Dawlish clamped a hand on Draco’s shoulder and steered him down the corridor from which he had appeared.

Draco didn’t resist. He let himself be led away, his face unreadable, but his posture stiff and alert.

Hermione kept walking, forcing herself not to run, forcing herself to breathe evenly, desperate to appear unaffected, as if nothing had happened.

But with every step she took, her hands shook harder.